


He Mocks the Meat He Feeds Upon

by quixotesque



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Kirk/OMCs - Freeform, M/M, Mirror Universe, Power Play, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 00:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10262159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixotesque/pseuds/quixotesque
Summary: As the turbolift comes to a stop and they step out into the corridor, Kirk nonchalantly says, “I was going to have you thrown into the agony booth for killing the Caitains I brought back last night.”Spock turns his head just enough to keep Kirk within his peripheral vision. He has been anticipating this conversation.





	

As the turbolift comes to a stop and they step out into the corridor, Kirk nonchalantly says, “I was going to have you thrown into the agony booth for killing the Caitains I brought back last night.”

Spock turns his head just enough to keep Kirk within his peripheral vision. He has been anticipating this conversation. “As I informed you at the time, they were thieves,” he says and recalls the two young men with soft faces that a more sentimental species would perhaps describe as sweet. “I caught them attempting to abscond with a number of the artifacts you display in your quarters.”

“I knew they were thieves, Spock.”

“And yet you chose them?”

“I was bored,” Kirk offers simply. “Thought I’d have some fun with them before and after they tried their little tricks, but that’s beside the point, really. Follow me,” he orders and walks on ahead to his quarters.

Very briefly, Spock considers refusing. Kirk is currently off-shift – currently not captain and thus this is not a captain’s order - but Spock also knows how little truth there is in that. Kirk grips nothing else as tightly as his title. It had been apparent from the moment he took the captain’s chair like an emperor settling into his throne at long last, a man claiming his birth-right with the intention of never relinquishing it. Kirk is captain every moment of every day. That goes unspoken and so Spock follows.

Beyond the artifacts Kirk collects – one from each subjugated world - his quarters are simple, impersonal. They suggest no attachments to anything beyond conquering the black piece by piece. But then, Spock is forced to note, there is the bed. The rumpled sheets soiled with the smell of sexual intercourse and the residue of sweat and ejaculation. Kirk's lack of shame disgusts Spock, unsettles the coolness of his calm with a hot prod. It wakes that defective part of him, the unruly Human side, coaxing it to imagine Kirk looming naked over one of his playthings, slamming his thick cock into the boy’s wet-silk opening, savaging him hungrily while the second Caitain watched and saw how he, too, would be savaged next. 

“Does the mess bother you?” Kirk asks, knowing, and Spock becomes aware that his gaze has been trained on the bed for longer than necessary. He holds his hands behind his back, returns his attention to Kirk, who has now poured a small amount of Saurian brandy into a glass.

“I have no opinion on the state of your quarters, Captain. For what purpose have you asked me here?”

Kirk inexplicably makes a soft sound of amusement. He tilts his head back to drink, baring the softness of his throat. Spock watches the amber liquid slip down into Kirk’s mouth and leave his lips slightly wet. Unhurriedly, Kirk sets the glass down and moves towards the bed, fingers unfastening his sleeveless gold jacket. It slips off with a quiet whisper, revealing the crafted upper body beneath, muscular and smooth except for the pale, almost imperceptible slash running straight from Kirk’s nape to his tailbone. 

Kirk sits at the edge of the bed and reaches down to remove his boots. “The thing is, Spock, they weren’t yours to touch, let alone kill, but you did kill them and that got me thinking.”

“I believe I have already supplied an explanation,” Spock says. He wonders if Kirk will reach for his trousers next and bare himself unabashedly as if Spock is yet another species for Kirk to sample with his cock. The thought brings on another pulse of distasteful, uncomfortable heat.  

Kirk stops, however, resting his elbows on his strong thighs, hands dangling in between his legs by his knees. He regards Spock with an inscrutability that is almost Vulcan. “Why didn’t you call Security and have the Caitains taken to the agony booth?”

“Captain—”

“Why didn’t you inform  _me_  before you did anything at all? Why did you act so—” Kirk pauses to search for the most accurate word but it is nothing more than pretense. He enjoys leisurely unraveling his confrontations as if they are threads of undetermined length, made to be weaved in whatever directions he sees fit. “—so rashly?" Kirk decides upon. "I thought you were all cool and rational.”

Spock cannot deny that he  _had_  acted rashly. Had moved on impulse, his hidden blade leaving its sheath quickly, slicing through delicate skin, setting free streams of blood. But this is an acknowledgement he is reluctant to make out loud and in its place, he says, “You are hoping to extract a particular answer from me.” He cannot see where it begins and ends but Spock senses the presence of a spider-spun trap, another one of Kirk's insidious games.

“I’m starting to think you don’t actually know the answer yourself.”

“I fail to see why my actions are of such interest to you. I found the Caitain thieves with your possessions in hand. I found them—” with marks of Kirk’s possession all over their skin, his violent lust blooming in color at their throats and arms, at their hips and thighs where their clothes had been too gauzy to hide what lay beneath. The places Kirk had touched with his mouth and his fingers, his cock, set out as plainly as a constellation in the night-sky.

“You found what?” Kirk prompts. Languidly, he tangles his fingers into the sheets at his side, pulling, unearthing some sort of fabric. It takes Spock 4.2 seconds to recognize what it is – one of the Caitains’ undergarments, an insufficient, transparent thing designed to reveal and entice rather than any practical purpose. Kirk had most likely ripped it away from the Caitain with casual possessiveness, tossed it aside without care in favor of spreading the Caitain's legs.

“He was so tight,” Kirk says suddenly, like he is peeking into Spock’s mind, witnessing the same image. His voice is low, faintly raspy. His eyes, too perceptive, do not leave Spock as he continues. “Nothing sweeter than a tight, wet hole around your cock, you know that? I fucked him until he cried and then I fucked the other one until  _he_  cried. They both broke down on my cock, begging for more, for everything, such greedy little bitches, so I gave it to them and left them in pieces. You could probably have smelled my come in them from miles away.”

“I did,” Spock says, the two words slipping free without his permission, and realizes his error too late.

Kirk smiles. It reaches his cunning ice eyes.

That smell – Kirk’s smell – had been what Spock had first detected. It had led him to the Caitains like a lure and when the source had turned out to not be Kirk himself but his _undeserving toys_ , Spock had— In a lapse of control, a blaze of emotion, he had—

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Kirk murmurs approvingly. He leaves the undergarment on the bed and stands again, moving closer on bare feet. The tempting heat of his body invades Spock’s space, reaches his cooler skin. “You didn’t kill them because they were thieves, but because they smelled of me.”

“No,” Spock says. Kirk cannot be correct. 

“Because I spent the night fucking them and not fucking you.”

“ _No_ ,” he says again, too forceful. It sounds pitiful even to his own ears.

“So I was right,” Kirk says softly. Mockingly. He looks at Spock like he is looking at a naïve child. The light in his eyes is of dark triumph. “The poor half-Vulcan didn’t even understand what he was doing until now.”

“You make false assumptions out of arrogance. I am not moved by base impulses in the way Humans are.”

Kirk laughs. The supercilious curve of his mouth is a Terran sickle, sharp and deadly. “Turns out jealousy is green-blooded, not green-eyed. I haven’t taken a Vulcan yet – maybe you’ll be less uptight if I took that stick out of your ass and replaced it with my dick.”

“Find another Vulcan to service you,” Spock says tightly, but it cuts to even speak the words, to imagine Kirk truly seeking out another, Vulcan or not.

“Why would I do that when you’d kill them too,” Kirk says with another burst of condescending laughter. He stands in front of Spock half-naked and weaponless and Spock thinks about how easily he could overpower Kirk. Bloody his taunting face, layer fresh scars onto the canvas of his body and then own that body for himself – only for himself. He thinks how it would still be nothing but a hollow victory in the end, Kirk undaunted, undefeated, saying, “What was that about not being moved by base impulses?”

Warmth gently touches Spock’s mouth – Kirk’s breath, the plush temptation of his lips so close, too close. From them flows honeyed poison: “I could make you want it, Spock. I could have you break down on my cock just like I had those Caitains. Bones told me what you said about stallions needing to be broken; your mistake was assuming that I would be the one breaking.”

Rage, Spock tells himself, it is rage erupting in his belly, flaming along his nerves, rage and not desire, not shame. Not curiosity and a sudden urge to acquiesce. “No,” he says and pretends not to feel the stirring in between his legs. 

“Yes,” Kirk whispers. It’s scalding even to Spock, who was raised in desert heat. It burns Spock’s reply to ashes before it can leave his throat.

The silence that remains is thunderous. Intolerable. 

“I,” he begins without knowing how to end, vague humiliation sparking in him by the loss of the precision he so frequently wields.

Kirk’s chiseled body is within his reach. Spock only needs to reach out and touch the beckoning, golden skin. Slowly, his traitorous hands begin to move. 

And like a performer at the end of the final act, Kirk withdraws, swapping sultry provocation for dead-eyed apathy. “Well, at least that was marginally more interesting than watching you in the booth.” He turns his back on Spock, dismissive and dismissing. “Don’t kill my pets again, Spock. I won’t tell you a second time.”  

Spock's fingers stop and return to their original position, tight at his spine. “Yes, Captain,” he utters flatly.

“Now get out of here.”

Stride steady and head held upright, Spock obeys. He leaves and does not allow himself to consider that maybe it is more truthful to say he is escaping. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken and amended from Shakespeare’s _Othello_ : _“O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; / It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock / The meat it feeds on."_ Mirror Kirk's diet consists of steak, apples and whichever subordinate unlucky enough to catch his attention that day.


End file.
